


The Ghosts That Haunt Us

by WetSammyWinchester



Category: My Bloody Valentine (2009), Supernatural
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Rescue Sex, SPN Masquerade Kink Meme, Unrequited Wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23544478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester
Summary: Sam works the case of a man possessed by the ghost of Harry Warden. Tom Hanniger may look like Sam's brother but he's not.
Relationships: Tom Hanniger/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48
Collections: SPN_Masquerade Spring 2020





	The Ghosts That Haunt Us

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round six of SPN Masquerade and the anon prompt: Sam works a case that turns out to be a man possessed by a ghost of Harry Warden. To make matters worse, he’s very, very grateful to Sam for exorcising the ghost out of him. It's kind of weird that he looks like Sam's big brother, but Sam gets over it quick. Maybe a little too quick, even.
> 
> Thanks to doilycoffin for the quick beta and support!

The face throws Sam off and he misses his first tackle. When he finally catches the guy and pins him down, his world tilts on its axis. 

The eyes he’s staring into aren’t his brother’s - same shape, same bright green. Instead, they belong to some poor guy who’s been carrying the ghost of Harry Warden deep inside him for three years. These green eyes burn with rage and the full lips peel back in a snarl as Sam wrestles the rusty pick-ax out of his superhumanly strong grip. Hair and blood still cling to its blade and drip down the handle making it slippery to hold, and as they struggle, the sharp edge slashes Sam’s forearm. He pulls the ax away and tosses it a foot away. As the possessed guy beneath him thrashes, Sam digs out a can of lighter fluid from his jacket pocket.

“You don’t know what you’re dealing with.” The ghost of Harry Warden spews the words like a rattlesnake spits venom.

“Oh, I know what you are, Harry,” Sam replies as he squirts liquid onto the ax and drops the can to flick open a pack of matches, lighting all the heads at once. “Just another miserable ghost taking a joy ride in this poor guy’s body.”

The matches hit the lighter fluid with a whoosh of heat and the fire runs along the trail to the pick-ax. As the wood handle starts to burn, the body beneath Sam bucks and howls before the ghost of Harry Warden evaporates into the night sky.

When Sam looks down again, the green eyes are blinking rapidly in confusion and Sam is hit again by the familiar and yet strange lines of this guy’s face. Sam cups it between his palms, directing the panicky man’s attention upward.

“Tom, listen to me. It’s gonna be alright,” Sam says. “He’s gone.”

~~~

They head back to Sam’s motel room. With three dead bodies scattering the park, they can’t wait around for the locals to show. The ride back is quiet; Tom Hanniger doesn’t ask any questions so Sam doesn’t offer up any answers. 

Some folks don’t remember much when possessed but watching Tom out of the corner of his eye as he sits quietly on the passenger side, Sam wonders. 

A shower helps to wash off the blood and bits of gore that are stuck in Tom’s hair. Tom is out of it, hasn’t said much of anything, so Sam stays in the bathroom with him. He leans against the vanity, giving Tom his privacy behind the flimsy shower curtain, making sure he doesn’t fall over and drown himself in the inch of bloody water at the bottom of the tub. 

Now, Tom sits on the edge of the mattress, damp-haired and complacent as Sam wraps a grey, wool blanket from the Impala’s trunk around his shoulders. The blanket still smells of Dean from the last time they slept in the car, somewhere in Cleveland or Cincinnati. He can never keep them straight.

“I don’t remember most of it,” Tom finally says.

“That’s not unusual for ghost possession,” Sam replies. He hands Tom Dean’s old flask filled with whiskey and watches as Tom tips it back. The lamp’s dim light plays with shadows of stubble that run along Tom’s jaw and Sam can’t look away. 

Tom wipes his lips with the back of his hand and Sam’s gut goes warm and liquid before he takes the flask back and swallows his first sip. “You’ve seen this kind of thing before,” Tom says. It’s less a question, more of a statement.

“A few times,” Sam replies and allows himself to be put at ease by Tom’s smooth voice. It’s different, stronger than he expects, and not roughened by whiskey and hunting. He watches Tom who watches him back while Sam fiddles with the flask cap before taking another long swig. “My brother and I hunt them.” 

“Brother, huh?” Tom rubs his palms up and down on the sleep pants Sam gave him to wear after his shower. Despite scrubbing with soap, Tom’s cuticles are still the color of rust. “Weird family life you got.”

Sam laughs. “You have no idea.”

When Sam starts to turn away, to make a move for the other side of the room, Tom brushes the blanket off his shoulders and stands up. He grabs Sam’s wrist to twist him back around. Sam’s instincts have him ready to fight but Tom’s face is soft and uncertain like the one Dean only shows to Sam when one of them dies. Sam holds his breath and his body still, unsure as well, waiting for the moment to pass. Tom runs a finger along the scrape from Harry’s pick-ax that runs from Sam’s elbow to the tender skin of his inner wrist.

“You’re hurt,” Tom says.

“Just a scrape. I’ve had worse,” Sam says. 

“Bet you have,” Tom says. His chuckle and the warm, heavy feeling of his hand on Sam’s wrist send heat down Sam’s spine. Tom’s brow scrunches up but he doesn’t let go. “I couldn’t stop it—“ Tom takes a deep breath and then blows it out, and Sam gives him space. When Tom can’t find the words, Sam pats him on the chest. 

“It’s okay,” Sam said. “The helplessness. It’s hard. And it won’t get any easier. You can’t go back to your old life. You’re wanted for murder.”

Tom’s eyelashes dip for a second, coy and ashy against his pale skin, and when he glances back up, a corner of his mouth turns up. “Yeah, well, my old life wasn’t that great anyway.”

Sam laughs softly and covers Tom’s hand with his own. “You’ll figure it out.” 

“Dimples,” Tom says and touches Sam’s cheek, a quick glance of fingertips against his skin. Instead of pulling apart, Tom strokes Sam’s jaw and stretches up to kiss him. When their lips touch, Sam startles back as if woken from a standing dream. It’s never a good idea to get mixed up with victims, Sam knows that. He’ll be driving out of town the next morning and they will still be left with what comes after.

“You don’t have to do this,” Sam says. Tom doesn’t move away. They are so close now, sharing the same air, the same space, and Sam senses a deja vu of lost moments in other motel rooms that never went anywhere. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Harry was inside my head for so long,” Tom says. “Now, it’s just me. And it’s quiet in here. No anger, no uncertainty, no fogginess from the pills I used to take. All I want is to feel something real.” He grabs Sam by the back of the neck to pull him in and the kiss opens up into soft lips and tongues. Tom presses his other hand against Sam’s chest as if to search out his beating heart and takes its measure, and Sam leans into it. He settles his hands on Tom’s hips, holding tight. Tom is strong, solid in all the right ways that Sam sometimes craves when he is alone at night, and he pushes Sam’s shoulders down until he sits on the edge of the bed, following him down so they don’t break the kiss. Tom’s hands drop to his belt buckle, scrambling and yanking before Sam can come up for air.

He grabs Tom’s wrists. “Wait, we can take our time—”

“Three years, Sam,” Tom says and his hands start to unbutton Sam's plaid shirt. “I don’t want to wait.” He yanks the shirt off Sam’s shoulders and starts to wrestle the t-shirt up his torso. 

Sam laughs as the cotton shirt pulls over his head. “You, too. Take off your clothes,” Sam says and Tom is naked in a matter of seconds. His damp hair is mussed and dark, his shoulders muscular and his stomach flat with the edge of his rib cage showing through. The edge in Tom’s lines, the peach color of his skin, might be enough of a difference that it isn’t too weird but before he can overthink it, Tom drops to his knees with a thump between Sam’s open legs. 

“I’ve seen you staring at my lips,” Tom says, running his hands up and down Sam’s thighs. Sam flushes, unable to speak with that face looking up at him, his cock half-hard. Tom steals another kiss from his open lips. “It’s okay. I like it—look all you want.” Tom’s head drops to Sam’s lap like a half-starved dog at a food dish, and Sam groans as Tom licks a stripe up the side of his shaft before swallowing half of it down. 

Sam’s pitch goes up to a desperate whine as Tom continues to suck him off, his fingers tangling in the still wet hair, petting and stroking his approval. Tom pushes Sam’s thighs apart more until he can reach Sam’s balls and gives them a squeeze which makes Sam curl over. The sudden pleasure is too much and he grounds himself in the clean smell of Tom’s hair. 

The warm suction is suddenly gone and Tom is pushing him back flat on the mattress. “Get up on the bed,” Tom orders and Sam feels a blurt of wet out of his cock at the blunt direction. He scoots further up the bed until only his feet dangle off the edge. “Right there. I want you to blow me at the same time.” 

Tom climbs up on his hands and knees on the bed, levered over Sam, knees bracketing both sides of Sam’s head. Tom’s cock hangs down, inches from Sam’s mouth. Sam hasn’t done this since college, a few fumblings in his college dorm bed, but this is better, less distracting not seeing Tom’s face. As Tom goes down on Sam’s cock again, he positions his mouth and throat at a better angle to go deeper with his nose pushed up against Sam’s balls. It finally gets Sam moving. He grabs the back of Tom’s thighs and licks his lips before pulling Tom down, sliding his smooth, cut cock in and out along Sam’s tongue. He digs his fingers into Tom’s skin to bring him deeper, return the favor, breathing in and out through his nose as his throat fills with cock. Tom is swirling his tongue along Sam’s slit like a pro, jerking his shaft with his fist and a little bit of spit, twisting his wrist when he gets to the top. Sam’s balls tighten up and he wants to warn Tom before he comes but he’s pinned and his mouth is full so all he can do is groan and tremble. But Tom seems to know and takes him deep, swallowing everything Sam gives him. Only a few seconds later, Tom is chanting softly, fuck, fuck, fuck, and jerking his hips. As Tom comes, Sam catches most of it on his tongue and relaxes his grip.

It’s awkward as Tom clambers away, carefully lifting his knee so he doesn’t hit Sam’s face. He twists around on the mattress so they are face-to-face and he kisses himself off Sam’s lips.

“You good?” he says. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, “I’m good.”

They lay under the sheets in the dark. Sam listens to Tom’s breathing. Without the face to distract him again, Sam can hear the difference. Dean breathes like he eats, with gusto, dropping into sleep quickly, but Tom is like a cat on the other side of the bed, quiet and careful.

“Guess I need to figure out what’s next,” Tom says.

They aren’t usually around for this part - Sam and his brother get out of town and don’t look back at the wreckage. They have enough of their own. 

“Think of it as a new start,” Sam says. “Any place you want to go?”

“Someplace quiet… and warm,” Tom says. He flips on his stomach. “Maybe the ocean. People are always happy by the water. No coal mines in the sand. That’s a bonus.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Sam replies. Dean asked about cases in Miami every winter but they’ve never gone. Sam smiles and drops off to sleep at the thought of Dean in board shorts, complaining about sand in his shoes.

~~~

When Sam wakes in the morning, Tom is gone and there’s a note:

 _Great night - thank you._  
Hopefully, we never cross paths again.  
Say hi to that brother of yours.


End file.
